


Here's To All Of Them

by Raphaela_Crowley



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1970s, Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), British Museum, Crowley's Plants (Good Omens), Drinking & Talking, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Irony, Newspapers, No Slash, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Other People With The Surnames Crowley And Fell, Personal Ads, Post-Scene: St James's Park 1862 (Good Omens), Random & Short, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:14:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28445967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raphaela_Crowley/pseuds/Raphaela_Crowley
Summary: In the late 1970s, after a disagreement and some cold shoulders given on both sides, Aziraphale and Crowley are unexpectedly reunited in front of the British Museum, thanks to a personal ad in the newspaper.A personal ad neither one of them actually took out...So here's to all the Mr. Crowleys and Mr. Fells whose friendships may or may not have been accidentally rekindled.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20





	Here's To All Of Them

_Here's To All Of Them_

A _Good Omens_ fanfiction

_1977:_

Aziraphale sets his mug of cocoa down beside the newspaper on his desk, a dejected expression on his face. He's been in low spirits for nearly six months (though that's not much time at all by angelic standards and perhaps shouldn't really _count_ ) because he had a nasty disagreement with Crowley.

Usually, when they quarrel, they can make it up again relatively fast. This time, though, things went over badly. It was not _quite_ the disagreement they'd had over the Holy Water in... oh, _was_ it 1862?

At any rate, he doesn't expect Crowley to go into a state of full-on hibernation over this argument and not pop in again for a hundred years, but it was bad enough that they haven't spoken since, not even to swap jobs for the Arrangement.

About three or four times they have – in passing – locked eyes while walking in St. James's Park. Or, at least, Aziraphale _thinks_ they've locked eyes – it can be hard to tell with Crowley's sunglasses.

Sometimes, when he's sitting up in the wee hours of the morning, waiting for Soho to come alive, when the words in his books are just the slightest bit stale and the dust motes in the shop have _sound_ , rather like raspy bees, Aziraphale allows himself to wonder if it's really over.

If they'll ever switch places for the sake of tempting and blessing again.

Despite his initial reservations about the Arrangement, the angel fervently hopes – though he cannot _pray_ – this is not how it ends; not with silence and cold shoulders and seeing one another only from a distance.

Easing into his chair and reaching for the angel-wing handle of his mug, Aziraphale glances down at the newspaper, folded in such an odd way that the personal ads are on the top where the headlines ought to be.

With his free hand, he removes the elastic band, unfolds the page, and takes a proper look.

A strange advertisement catches his eye.

_A.J. Crowley and Mr. Fell have been estranged far too long. They should meet at noon outside the British Museum next Monday. Crowley is paying for lunch._

After nearly spitting out his cocoa in surprise, and coughing twice in quick succession, Aziraphale smiles and leans back in his seat to check the clock for the hour.

The invitation to make it up again could not be more clear. Monday is _today_. And it's so thoughtful of Crowley to offer to buy him lunch as well!

* * *

In Mayfair, after spraying (and doing this new thing he's gotten into where he verbally _threatens_ ) his houseplants, Crowley looks down at his watch.

His reflection – complete with a ginger moustache he's been trying out for the decade – winks back at him in the glass face of the expensive timepiece.

It's good his watch is always exact; he doesn't want to be late.

* * *

Sure enough, when Aziraphale arrives on the steps at the front of the British Museum, Crowley is there, waiting, already pacing back and forth, up and down.

There is some confusion, however, when they both remark on how sensible it was of the other one to extend the olive branch, so to speak, first, knowing how ridiculous their argument really was.

Frowning, Crowley insists he did no such thing.

"B-but," stammers Aziraphale, wringing his hands, "you offered to pay for lunch."

"Wot? No! I thought that was _you_ – making a joke."

"Well!" exclaims Aziraphale, eyes wide, cheeks gone red. "This suddenly has become a touch...er... _awkward_... Hasn't it, my dear?"

"What _I_ don't understand," says Crowley, throwing up his hands in frustration, "is if neither one of us put that ad in the paper, why the heaven–"

Just behind them, a stout, cheerful-looking man wearing a paisley tie and a tweed jacket, cries out to another man wearing a mackintosh and a yellow rain hat fast approaching the museum, " _Arnold James Crowley_! Long time no see!"

" _Henry Fell_ , you old bastard! How the hell are you? You saw my advertisement in the paper, I take it? Ready for that lunch I offered?"

" _Oh_!" says Aziraphale, chuckling and side-eyeing Crowley sheepishly.

"That's..." stammers Crowley, lifting his sunglasses slightly despite the risk of somebody potentially spotting his glittering yellow eyes, "... _unlikely_..."

"Good lord! What _were_ the odds of that?" the principality marvels, shaking his head.

* * *

"Crowley?" says Aziraphale, when they're drinking together back at the bookshop after a fine lunch at the Ritz.

"Yeah?"

"You don't suppose there were any _other_ Fells and Crowleys reunited at the British Museum today, all because of misunderstanding that personal ad, thinking it was for _them_?"

"Nah – not unless the ineffable plan is a whole lot more ineffable than even _we_ can comprehend."

"But, dear boy, that's the whole _point_ ," Aziraphale can't help remarking, brow creased. "Isn't it?"

"Be funny," he admits, unwilling now to let such a curious idea pass by unexplored, "if there _were_ a whole lot of 'em and we just missed them all, too busy making our own plans."

"Well" – Aziraphale raises his wineglass – "here's to all of them, then."

"To all of them," Crowley agrees, lifting his own glass.


End file.
